


but i can write a song

by glorious_spoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 13:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: Stiles has an idea. Derek is skeptical.





	but i can write a song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dunderklumpen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dunderklumpen/gifts).



> I was going to do a fake-dating fic, but I don't have the fortitude to draw it out properly, so. Have this instead?
> 
> Title from 'Ho Hey' by The Lumineers.

“Okay, so, hear me out,” Stiles says out of the blue one evening while they’re setting up for dinner on pack night. Derek gives him a long look, and he adds, “What? What’s with the look, huh?”

“I know you,” Derek tells him, turning to pull the dinner plates out of the cupboard. In the other room, Lydia and Scott and Kira are bickering comfortably over what movie to watch while Liam pointedly ignores them to quizz Mason on his Physics homework. Derek doesn’t know why the other two even bother; it’s inevitable that Lydia is going to get her way. “So I know that nothing good has ever come out of your mouth after that sentence.”

“That hurts me,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Come on. At least let me pitch my brilliant solution to your little envoy issue first, okay? It’s foolproof, I promise.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Envoy from the Vancouver pack? Potentially important alliance? Daughter of their alpha keeps trying to get in your pants? Does any of that ring a bell?”

“I told Scott to keep his mouth shut,” Derek growls, but really, he should have expected nothing less. Scott would hand over state secrets to Stiles without a second thought, although fortunately that habit _only_ goes as far as Stiles.

That, or Stiles just has an unnatural gift for getting people to spill their guts to him. It wouldn’t be the first time Derek has suspected him of possessing supernatural powers.

“Yeah, he told me everything like two hours after I got home,” Stiles says, leaning over him to pull open the silverware drawer. His scent fills Derek’s nose, warm and bright and heady; it’s all he can do not to flinch away. “Sorry. I know how you like your brooding enigmatic thing, but Scott is, like, constitutionally incapable of maintaining an element of mystery. How long are they in town again?”

“Two weeks. I can handle it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Stiles bumps him with a hip as he stretches to pull the cups out of the cabinet, a pale strip of belly visible where his t-shirt rides up. Derek is fiercely glad, not for the first time, that Stiles’s blunted human senses can’t detect the jolt of desire that goes through him at the sight.

He got so used to controlling his reactions back in the day, but Stiles has been away at college and now it’s like he has to relearn everything all over again. Relearn how not to lean into his warmth, how not to breathe in the smell of his hair and the heat of his skin; relearn how not to stare at him every time he’s not looking. He’s pretty sure he’s doing a shit job of it, too. Stiles might be oblivious, but Scott has been giving him some worryingly thoughtful looks over the past week, and two days ago Lydia marched up to him and said bluntly, “He’s well over the age of consent now, just so you’re aware.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek told her flatly, and she gave him an unimpressed look but didn’t bring it up again.

And now there’s Stiles, leaning easily into his space as if he has a right to be there, looking at Derek with wide brown eyes and a conspiratorial expression, and Derek has never really been able to say no to him. He sighs. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine. Let’s hear your brilliant solution,” Derek says. “Get it over with.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, man.” Stiles sounds unoffended as he sets the dishes down and hops up onto the counter, kicking his sneakered feet against the cabinets like he’s still a teenager instead of someone who’s about to graduate with a degree in criminal justice in a couple of weeks. “Okay. So, you can’t, like, turn her down directly without risking offending the alpha, which is a bad idea.”

“It would be awkward,” Derek allows. There’s a reason he’s been skirting the negotiations, even though Scott really needs someone with more experience in the details of werewolf politics to guide him. He’s been doing okay, but an alliance of this complexity should probably have more than just one twenty-year-old bitten werewolf to negotiate it, True Alpha or no. Scott has mostly been sliding by on his puppyish charm ‘til now, but that’ll only get them so far.

“Right. But if you were already involved with somebody…” Stiles trails off, raising his eyebrows significantly. Even so, it takes Derek a moment to get it.

“You mean _you?_ You have to be joking.”

“Ouch,” Stiles says, thumping his chest. “Now I’m really hurt.”

He’s still grinning, though. Derek pinches the bridge of his nose. “Even if I _were_ to agree to it,” he says, “which I’m not, it wouldn’t work.”

“Why not?”

“They’re werewolves, Stiles. They can detect your chemosignals, your heart-rate, your body temperature, your— look, you know all this.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, drawing the word out like he still doesn’t see Derek’s point. “So?”

“So they’ll know it isn’t real!” Derek snaps. He rubs a hand over his mouth before he can say anything else. Stiles follows the gesture with his eyes, then shakes his head, his grin softening into something that Derek can’t read at all.

“Oh, my god, Derek. You cannot possibly be this dense.”

“What?”

Stiles hops down off of the counter, landing lightly on the balls of his feet, so close that Derek can feel the heat of him through his clothes, can smell detergent and shampoo and the scent of his skin. He’s put on some muscle while he was away, his cheeks are rough with stubble, he’s the same height as Derek or maybe a little taller, and Derek is so goddamn used to thinking of Stiles as a fucking child ( _off-limits, he’s always been off-limits even to think about_ ) that somehow he managed to miss all of this. He takes a short breath. “Stiles—”

“Hey,” Stiles says, and his hand falls on Derek’s elbow before he can step back, the soft press of his fingers. He couldn’t keep Derek there if he really wanted to pull away, but Derek freezes at his touch anyway. “We’re cool, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek says shortly. He should yank his arm away. He should—

“So,” Stiles says, releasing him. “In case it was unclear. I’m not actually offering to pretend to be your boyfriend here.”

Derek stares at him. “What are you offering, then?”

“Seriously?”

“Stiles—”

“Okay,” Stiles says. His hands come up, a quick bird-like flutter before he lets them drop, curls his fingers into fists, shoves them in his pockets. His scent has changed slightly, taking on the bright metal scent of adrenaline, his heart-rate kicking up, a hot flush rising in his cheeks. “Okay. I suck at this, but in my defense, so do you. I’m not offering to pretend to be your boyfriend. I’m offering to _actually_ be your boyfriend. If that’s something you think you might want.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Do you insult everyone you’re trying to ask out?” Derek asks. It comes out rough, softer than he meant it to.

Stiles’s mouth curls into half of a smile. “Historically, it’s worked out pretty well for me.”

“And you…”

“I kinda feel like we’ve been dancing around it for a while.” Stiles shrugs, something painfully casual about the way he’s holding himself. Calm face and hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I mean, I could be wrong. If I am, please feel free to let me off the hook anytime now, and I promise I will never, _ever_ bring it up again. Ever.”

Derek clears his throat. There’s probably something mature and considered that he ought to say, but what actually comes out of his mouth is, “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I really am.”

“I’m a werewolf. I’m too old for you. I’m—”

“I know all that,” Stiles says. His voice is light, but he still hasn’t moved. His hands are still curled into fists in his pockets, like he’s holding himself back from something. “You know I know all that. It’s not like I could date anyone who wasn’t involved in all this anyway. And Scott said—” He cuts himself off sharply, jerking his chin sideways. “Anyway. Just putting it out there.”

“You want to date me to get the Wilson Pack off our backs.”

“I want to date you because I want to date you,” Stiles corrects. “That’s a bonus, to be fair, especially since Scott needs you on these negotiations, but—”

“But.”

“But I wouldn’t offer just for that.” A smile slips onto Stiles’s face. “I’m not that altruistic.”

“Oh,” Derek says. He’s standing too close to Stiles, not quite pinning him to the kitchen island but close enough that he can’t slip away easily either. The sound of the others in the living room seems to be coming from very far away, and Stiles is just looking at him, and he’s too close. They’re both too close. Derek licks his lips. His heart is speeding, and Stiles isn’t a werewolf but he smiles like he can hear it anyway.

“So,” he says. “Should I go in for the kiss, or should I finish getting dinner together and forget about all of this?”

The answer is _no._ That’s the right answer, the one he’s held behind his teeth since the first time he smelled arousal on Stiles’s skin in his proximity, years ago, but Stiles is twenty-one years old now, tall and strong and looking at him with an even expression that sees too much, that always has, and Derek clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and says, “Option one is good.”

“Oh thank god,” Stiles says on a quick breath of air, his tense shoulders relaxing, his face softening in a way that makes him look suddenly, shockingly young as he reaches up and tugs Derek down into a kiss.

It’s a quick, warm brush of lips, Stiles’s fingers firm on the back of his neck, and then from the living room Lydia says, “Oh, my god, _finally_ ,” and Scott _shushes_ her in a slightly frantic tone, and Stiles pulls away from him with a soft breath of laughter.

“So,” he says. “Maybe my timing could use some work.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, but his hand has found its way to the solid curve of Stiles’s shoulder, and he’s smiling like he might never stop, and they’re both going to get harrassed all the way through dinner, and he couldn’t care less. “You kind of suck at this.”

“So I’ve heard,” Stiles says, and he’s smiling back just as hard.


End file.
